Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero

by Glynnis Campbell

  Lady Cynthia had ruined his supper. It was bad enough to be denied the monastic silence he was accustomed to while dining. Worse that he’d chosen a seat between two brawling boys. But the wench had had the effrontery to stare at him the whole while, as if she’d never seen a man eat. And then the whole episode with the roast…

  A spot of ink smudged off to the side of the letter he’d just completed, and he grimaced, wiping it away swiftly with a linen rag.

  Hell! She was only a woman. It had simply been so long since he’d had any contact with one, he’d forgotten how to behave. After his recent nightmares, it was only natural he’d feel threatened by the presence of a woman, any woman.

  But was she just any woman? According to Lady Cynthia, they’d met before, and indeed, some image of her danced at the edges of his memory. But like the elusive stars glimmering beyond his window, recollection kept skipping just out of reach.

  His hand faltered around the curve of a letter, and he painstakingly retraced it to cover the flaw.

  He should set the wench straight now, distance himself from her. It was better to risk offending her than to lead them both into sin. Besides, he reasoned, he had nothing to give her, nothing to give any woman. Mariana had assured him of that. He wasn’t deserving of a woman’s affections. He was only fit for the church.

  He flinched almost imperceptibly, but enough to make a jog in the straight line he was scribing. Mentally cursing, he swabbed it away, then on impulse wiped over the whole line, leaving an ugly smudge across the page.

  He blew the candle out, slumped in his chair, and stared at the glittering stars that taunted him from the heavens. Damn it all. He’d found a suitable niche in the church. Why then was it so difficult for him to stay in it?

  Cynthia poked at the embers in her bedchamber’s hearth, sprinkling dried sweet basil over the smoldering wood and watching it catch fire in small, fragrant bursts. The flames warmed her cheek like a blush, and she stared into them, unable to think of anything but Garth de Ware.

  Garth with his impossibly broad shoulders. Garth with his thick, oak-colored hair and finely sculpted features. Garth with his fathomless green eyes that could scorch metal with a glare.

  A sad smile crossed her face. His eyes hadn’t always been like that. Once they’d gazed at her with tenderness and warmth.

  She stepped back from the flames now, which had begun to make her eyes tear with their heat. She settled herself onto the velvet bench, perching her bare feet up at the edge of the hearth, and blew on the ashen tip of the willow poker till it glowed.

  What had thrust Garth de Ware toward the church? In her experience, men of the cloth were either uncomplicated—wrinkled of face and twinkly of eyes—or corrupt, like the Abbot. Men of passion, like Garth, usually found their calling elsewhere.

  Priesthood was obviously contrary to his nature. She’d seen him lunge halfway across the hall after that roast. He possessed the instincts of a knight, of a warrior, and the act had been as innate to him as walking. How taxing it must be to repress his emotions, emotions she could sense bubbling inside him like a keg of ale about to explode. How he must have to battle to subdue his inherent power of command—common to nobles, notorious to de Wares. And what torture it must be to force his body to quiet toil when his muscles demanded more challenging labor.

  Why? What had driven him down that path? What had wrenched all will to thrive and grow from him, like weeds choking an abandoned garden? Whatever the catalyst, Garth had sought sanctuary at the monastery four years ago. From what she could see, the church had been less a sanctuary than a siren calling to him, enclosing him in comforting arms and pulling him down beneath the waters of human struggle to his spiritual death. It seemed he hadn’t lifted his eyes to the secular light of day since.

  It was truly a shame, because this world, and not the spiritual, was the one in which they lived and breathed, the world of nature and passion and life. For Cynthia, to deny the corporeal world was an offense to God.

  Of course, she didn’t expect Garth to pull himself from the embrace of the church—to do so would be blasphemy. But Cynthia knew men of faith who lived full and happy lives, who even wed and had children, to the delight of their parishioners. Surely Garth de Ware was more suited to such a life. He deserved something beyond the austere existence of spiritual poverty he’d endured over the last four years.

  She sighed. Four years! Perhaps it was too late to save him.

  And yet, she’d used those very words a hundred times upon finding some pathetic, ailing plant she was tempted to nurse back to health. No amount of common sense had ever kept her from trying to salvage one before. And the more hopeless the task, the more determined she grew.

  She supposed a man was no different. With proper care, by gently weeding the defenses from around Garth’s tender roots, he could be redeemed.

  Aye, she thought, shifting upright on the seat. It was suddenly clear. She could rescue him. She could redeem his lost spirit. Fate had brought Garth de Ware to Wendeville, and now she knew why. He was her destiny. Once, in a long-ago garden, he’d been her knight in shining armor. This was her chance at long last to return the favor.

  A pinecone sizzled on the fire, and with the long stick she poked it into the heart of the flames, where the sap bubbled and snapped. A smile lingered on her lips, but despite her newfound conviction, she couldn’t help but imagine she might be playing with fire where Garth was concerned, too.

  CHAPTER 6

  The sun blazed high overhead, hotter than Hades, as Garth steered the rickety wheelbarrow across Wendeville’s broad courtyard to the garden for the thirty-second time. Runlets of sweat trickled down his neck and along his ribs. The wool cassock itched about his waist. A sharp pebble had lodged itself between his foot and what was left of his boot. And his breath cut into his lungs like a dagger.

  But the pain was good. The pain helped him to focus on his new surroundings, his responsibilities, God’s plan—anything but the long legs planted in the garden muck before him.

  Lady Cynthia had bloused a fair portion of her surcoat above her belt, effectively exposing far too much of those legs. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, and her bare white toes burrowed in the mud as she turned the earth with a spade.

  He tried to think of anything, anything else at all, as she leaned forward to pluck a weed from the ground, all bottom and skirt and delicious ankles. Then she turned, ambling forward to meet him. A childlike smudge of dirt decorated the bridge of her nose, and it was all he could do to resist wiping it away. Instead, he forced his attention to bracing the wheelbarrow in the mud to remove the plants from it.

  He wished God had granted him an extra Sabbath this week. Normally it was a chaplain’s busiest day. But yesterday, Garth’s vow of silence had given him a blessed reprieve from preaching. He’d spent the Sabbath mostly in his quarters, recopying scripture, saying his devotions, suppressing impious thoughts. When he found it necessary to leave that sanctuary, he guarded his privacy as much as possible, moving surreptitiously through the halls like a monastery mouse. That way, at least, there was only supper to contend with, when the sound of Cynthia’s throaty laughter and her impertinent stare all but destroyed his appetite.

  Today, however, he found himself in the middle of the Wendeville hive. Since he had no voice to serve her, Lady Cynthia had decided she’d put his back to good use instead. Already he could feel the pull of muscles unused for years, one in particular he didn’t want to think about. But, if not for the sin of pride, he would have congratulated himself. He’d managed to control his reactions to Lady Cynthia rather admirably, given the circumstances.

  He lifted two herb seedlings from the wheelbarrow. One fell over as he set them in the dirt.

  Aye, he’d almost completely ignored his body’s feckless stirrings.

  Thyme. Rosemary. One by one he pitched them to the ground. Borage. Mint.

  If only, he wished, pressing his lips together tightly as he discarded the p
lants, she wouldn’t sway like that when she walked.

  “Please, Garth,” she said, startling him.

  He turned to her with thinly cloaked panic. Why couldn’t she address him as Father or Chaplain like everyone else? She was far too near. And her hand was on his sleeve again. He could smell the sweet fragrance of her hair. Coriander today. Nay, anise. And where she touched his arm, her fingers felt like hot lead.

  “The plants are delicate,” she murmured diplomatically. “Please try to be gentle with them.”

  He swallowed heavily. Her voice soughed like wind through a sycamore grove. He tensed his jaw, nodded once, and resumed unloading the cuttings more carefully. How could he have been so stupid? Of course the plants were delicate. He’d been hurling them about like catapult missiles. Her presence was obviously distracting him from all else.

  Garth’s company had apparently driven all the wits from Cynthia. She couldn’t recall which seedling she’d intended to plant next. This close, she saw the flecks of blue in his green eyes, heard the breath rasp faintly through his nose, felt its gentle breeze on her face. She could discern the shadow of the beard he’d scraped this morning and the light sheen of sweat atop his lip. She could smell his skin. It was doing strange things to her senses.

  She’d missed him yesterday. She’d spent the first half of the day searching for him and the second half entertaining a pair of bachelor brothers Elspeth had diverted from a passing pilgrimage.

  One brother was deadly dull, and the other delighted in reciting his own health history in excruciating detail. By the end of dinner, she knew every ailment the man had ever endured or might endure. And to Elspeth’s horror, Cynthia used that information to rid herself of the pair. When he complained of recurring digestive upset, she prescribed spurge. The man, mortified by the herb’s swift effects on the contents of his stomach, declined to stay another night. Thankfully, he took his boring brother with him.

  Today, she had both time and Garth to herself, for all the good it was doing. Her heart hadn’t beat steadily since morning, when she’d found him kneeling in prayer at the altar, haloed in magnificent rainbow-colored sunbeams. Nor did the sun shining now in undiluted, buttery splendor on his rich mane help matters. He was beautiful, and her hand still tingled from the touch she’d stolen of his muscled forearm. She gulped. She had to think of something to say before her ridiculous obsession with his physical attributes made her forget her good intentions.

  She cleared her throat. There was an awkward moment as they both tried to take the same parsley start from the wheelbarrow, but he snatched his hand back at once, surrendering it readily to her.

  Her fingers trembled as she set the plant upon the ground. She felt feverish. Perhaps it was the sun. Tugging the flask from her hip, she took a long drink of watered wine, then turned to offer Garth a sip.

  He glanced at it. The tip of his tongue wet his lower lip. For a moment he looked as if he’d like nothing more. But then a bland mask descended over his features, and he glared into the distance with cool dismissal. It was as if all the humanity suddenly drained from his face. He declined the drink.

  She shivered reflexively as he breezed past her with all the chill of the north wind. He might not be able to speak, but his expression spoke volumes. His emotions were as apparent on his face as the freckles were on hers, and at the moment, his gaze was most challenging.

  She sighed. Perhaps he was angry with her. Or perhaps he was just hot. The poor man was probably unused to the outdoors, closeted in a monastery scriptorium all day. She supposed she should let him retire to the great hall for proper rest and refreshment.

  She should, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to know what had become of Sir Garth de Ware, slayer of bees, defender of young ladies.

  “You really don’t remember me?” she blurted out before prudence could stop her.

  He halted, a seedling clutched in each fist.

  “I mean, it’s difficult to imagine.” She shrugged. “I’m a bit uncommon, after all. Who could possibly forget little Cynthia le Wyte’s freckled face and orange hair?” She giggled, picking nervously at the parsley. “Though I suppose it has been a number of years…”

  She was chattering, and she knew it. And Garth couldn’t answer her, with his silly vow of silence. But he didn’t have to glare at her like that. She blushed and dropped her gaze. “Of course, I’m aware I’m no great beauty and…” Lord, she was embarrassing herself, pruning the poor parsley to death, and growing more irritated by the moment. “Perhaps not even very memorable, but…”

  Garth didn’t look like he was going to help her out of the hole she was digging for herself any time soon. She tossed the ruined parsley back into the wheelbarrow and planted her hands on her hips. “God’s wounds! Just how many ladies have you met with hair the color of a marigold?” she snapped.

  “My lady!”

  Across the courtyard scurried the new girl, Mary. Cynthia mouthed a soundless curse at the maidservant’s poor timing.

  “And even if you don’t remember me—“ she muttered.

  “Lady Cynthia!” the maid cried.

  “”You could at least be chivalrous about it and—“

  “My lady! Come quickly!”

  “And…well…at least pretend you remember,” she finished, adjusting her belt and whisking out the folds of her skirts.

  “My lady,” Mary gasped out, skidding to a stop before her.

  “What!” she barked.

  The maid jumped in surprise, her brown eyes wide. “Elspeth says to come quick.” The lass glanced briefly at Garth, clearly awed by being in the presence of a priest.

  “What’s happened?”

  “A gentleman arrived from Tewksbury, my lady. He says he’s eaten yew berries, and he’s ailing something fierce.”

  “Yew berries?” She doubted it. No one with a tongue in his head could stomach enough of the nasty fruit to grow ill from it. Still, she couldn’t very well ignore the plea of a man who might well die at her gates. Muttering a mild oath, heedless of her bare feet and the muddy skirts flapping about her knees, she stalked off toward the keep. Saving Garth’s soul would have to wait for another time.

  At supper, Garth cursed the vow of silence that kept him from grumbling into his pottage over the foppish lout with his long golden curls and scarlet surcoat who was leaning precariously close to Lady Cynthia. If that man had truly dined on yew berries, he’d eat his cassock. The oaf sat at the high table, giggling and flapping his hands about like a startled chicken, jabbering on and on about Lady Cynthia’s miracle cures. And while Garth imagined the dolt might indeed be witless enough to eat such unappetizing fare, he suspected the man was more cunning than stupid.

  Sir Shamster, or whatever his name was, knew how to attract the attentions of an unwary woman. As Garth’s own brothers had told him many a time, the swiftest way to win a lady’s heart was to affect a need for her. This rascal had shown that need by feigning illness.

  By the looks of things at the high table, his plan had succeeded. Not only had he garnered himself a spot next to Lady Cynthia, but he had Elspeth tittering over his every word as if it were the most entertaining drivel she’d ever head.

  Garth stabbed his bread into his stew. Doubtless this was just the sort of cur Elspeth had in mind for the next Lord of Wendeville. He ground the sopping morsel between his teeth and cast a dark look toward the boor leering over Lady Cynthia.

  Then he plunged the remainder of his loaf into the trencher, his appetite vanished. He wiped his fingers on his napkin and dropped it to the table with a sigh. He supposed his opinion meant nothing. After all, it was of no consequence to him if Cynthia took up with an unprincipled knave.

  Still he suffered through the evening, questioning what kind of God could loose such a wily fox upon what was surely Wendeville’s most innocent dove.

  Thankfully, Sir Shamster disappeared the next morn before sunrise, apparently without a word to Lady Cynthia. Garth wondered if the villain’s sw
ift flight could be traced to the mysterious depositing of mice in his bed, and he prayed for the soul of such mischief’s perpetrator long and hard.

  Rain prevented any work out of doors, and for that, Garth was thankful. It was difficult enough being closeted with Lady Cynthia in the candlelit keep, admiring her as she tended to skinned knees and burned custard and bruised feelings with equal compassion. But watching her labor in the dazzling light of day, her loose hair gleaming like copper, her bare limbs drinking the sunshine and reflecting it back, her eyes laughing with joy, would have been sheer torture.

  Meanwhile, Elspeth, true to her word, managed to unearth yet another marriageable noble despite the foul weather. By noon, a pathetic twig of a youth sat shivering by the fire, his lips blue, his knees knocking. If he was all of eighteen years, Garth would have been surprised. His voice still cracked when he spoke, judging from what few words he could squeak past his rattling teeth, and Garth could count the sparse whiskers on his chin.

  Lady Cynthia was kind to the lad as well, bringing him a warm posset and blankets, and Garth endured an uncharacteristic twinge of envy. At the drafty monastery, one’s faith was considered enough to warm one’s bones. He could recall sleepless nights, shuddering beneath his thin wool coverlet while icicles formed on the sill, certain that his lack of holy fervor was to blame for his suffering.

  “Father?”

  Garth felt a tug on his cassock and peered down. A small freckle-faced boy frowned up at him.

  “My mother says you can’t talk to me, but that’s all right, ‘cause you can still talk to God, and my mother says you can talk to God for me, ‘cause my father’s in his cups and says he doesn’t have time to tinker with a damn toy, and my mother is a lass and doesn’t know the first thing about toys, and so could you please speak to God about fixing my dragon?”

  Garth’s mouth twitched, and he fought to keep a smile from his face at the boy’s long-winded discourse. The little lad cradled a broken wooden toy in his arms. Its paint was faded, its edges worn smooth. Garth furrowed his brow and held his hands out for the thing. The boy solemnly handed it over.